


fairy!tale

by EdgarAllenPoet



Series: wolf!verse codas [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: 1920's, AU, Asexual Character, Bootlegging, Elves, Fairies, Gen, Hilarity, IT'S A JOKE, Inferiority Complex, Magic, Prohibition, Squabbling, epic magic battles, ireland is literally just full of elves, no offense to anyone from ireland, prejudice against human-elf hybrids, what the fuck even is ireland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Pete glared at him, slightly abashed.  How had this man (nay, this boy), pushed his way through Pete’s wall like that.  His magic didn’t fail.  His magic never failed.  What was this clown doing?</p>
<p>“Your majesty,” the boy said, only further confirming his identity.'</p>
<p>Pete was the best bootlegger known to man during the prohibition.  He had all the money, all the women, and all the power he wanted.  So what if he'd been the laughing stock back at home, making a joke of himself every time he failed to do something everyone else immediately mastered.  So what.  Amongst the humans, Pete's magic was flawless.  He was a god, and when you're a god, why would you ever want to be a prince?</p>
            </blockquote>





	fairy!tale

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the wolf!verse universe, nearly a century before the rest of the fic (elves have impossible life spans). You don't have to read this for the rest of wolf!verse to make sense. It's just for funsies.

_Glossary  
imp: mischievous child. common insult among fey._

_sprite: an older, wiser elf_

_fetch: insult. a word derived from the stories of ‘changelings’ who were fey that took the place of stolen human children. a fetch was a piece of enchanted wood left instead of a elf that appeared to be a child but grew sick and died shortly. calling a elf this would imply that they are fake, an impostor, without magic or power, etc._

_fairy: name by which many elves are called by other supernaturals. after years of common misconception, the two words have come to hold the same meaning._

_elf: the most humanoid of the fey, these magical creatures are human in size and are very similar to humans in most ways. differing traits include pale, translucent skin; flaking of the skin on the shoulders, arms, and forehead; pointed ears; stronger source of magic than any human, including mages (also known as wizards); and due to geographical location, an Irish accent._

_In a long and complicated series of events (which you will eventually come to know, if you express interest and/or I bother to type it up), the fey were reduced to small numbers and forced into the confines of a quaint European country known as Ireland. This country is where the fey kingdom is located, and it is also where many elves (other fey include nymphs, who live in trees; nixies and mermaids, who live in water; and pixies, who live wherever the hell they want) choose to reside. Elves' power sources are directly linked to nature, so they try to stay away from large human cities, where there can be interference that makes them feel sick or disoriented. They also try to stay away from humans because those creatures are clumsy, and while elves are magically superior, they lack the physical prowess to survive such accidents as getting knocked down a staircase or accosted by a large, intoxicated man._

_All fey have an aura about them that partially reflects their personality. For the most part, male auras are darker colors (dark blues, reds, greens, purples) and female auras are softer colors (pastels). The least common aura is pink. Fey with pink auras are known to be infertile and generally aromantic. They do not seek partners. As of recent years, "pinkies" were thought to be extinct._

_The leader of the fey is, currently, Queen Dale Wentz, who has been reigning for as long as anyone can remember (elves have impossibly long life spans). Her son, and only child, is Prince Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third, named after his father, who was a human mage. Pete retains qualities that are both human and fey, and he is thus far the only one of his kind._

 

He was lucky. That’s what anyone would say if you asked them. He was lucky, they’d say, but Pete knew that wasn’t true. He was smart. He was fearless. He had all of the cards playing to his favor. No, Pete wasn’t lucky, but he was charmed.

He was the best, but he was also heartless. Everyone knew that too. You didn’t get into bootlegging under his command unless you were ready to follow orders. Anyone getting into it knew Pete didn’t get caught most of the time, but even when he did, he didn’t. His gang got caught, sure. His contraband got confiscated. His money got seized by the courts, but while chaos erupted around them and his gang found themselves scrambling to avoid prison (or worse), Pete was often no where to be found. He was the kind of captain who never went down with his ship; he didn’t need to. He had options. He had resources. When trouble erupted, he spirited away.

It seemed that people were okay with that. His alias was known all over the country. Of course he was smart enough to avoid using his real name (because while he needed to be infamous in that moment, he didn’t need to be so a century later), so the world knew him as Lewis Kingston. It was honestly convenient that he’d been given two middle names. Saved him the trouble of making something up.

Being infamous gifted him with lots of advantages. He walked into a speakeasy to be swarmed by a welcoming crowd of rag-a-muffin men and scarlet women, which was just the way he liked things. Everywhere he went he got attention. He got respect. He got verification on the market that he was the best and the world knew it. Even the fuzz knew it; he could tell by the disgruntled grins they’d pull at him before chasing him down the street, only to turn a corner and find him vanished. Nothing left in his wake save for a vague scent of cinnamon. Pete loved the attention, except for when he didn’t.

This was one of those nights. Pete kept his collar popped and his hat pulled low as he murmured the password to the bouncer, who nodded and let him slip inside. At other venues Pete had attended (ballrooms with sparkling floors and soaring ceilings) the doormen were always huge, beefy men two or three times his size, big enough to literally throw out anyone who might stir up a ruckus. But beggars can’t be choosers, and when it comes to playing games on the other side of the law, you can’t risk hiring a guy who might be too morally righteous for the scene. Bouncers were friends of friends, and this one happened to be a tall yet gangly fellow, no thicker than a nickel, with rotting teeth and a shotgun. Trade two guns of muscle for two barrels of fire; it made sense where Pete was concerned.

He didn’t bother with the bar. The crowd was gathered there, and he’d be recognized in a heartbeat. Instead, he beelined for the back booth, furthest from the front of the pub and shadowed from attention. He didn’t want attention... but he did want a drink.

He searched the place with his eyes, scanning absently over all the quiffs with their short hair and shorter skirts. He needed someone who wasn’t going to stick around gabbing. An older woman with a sour expression, perhaps. Someone who wouldn’t find him interesting.

She caught his eye eventually. A real wet blanket, the way she’d just knocked a man’s teeth out with an empty mug, all because he pinched her ass as she passed him. He was bleeding. He deserved it. Pete liked her. He focused his attention on her and used his thoughts to pull her closer. Technically there was a rule against influencing mortals with magic, unless it was an emergency, but Pete didn’t care about rules. Being the prince and all, he didn’t have to care. He was already a scoundrel and a bastard. It wasn’t like anyone expected better of him.

She was at his table in a matter of seconds, large hands balled into fists and meaty arms crossed over a wide chest. Her once copper, now graying, hair was pulled back into a too tight bun. A scowl decorated her aged face. She’d probably worked in this pub for a half a century.

“What’cha want?” she asked. Her voice was low and rough, echoing the funerals of hundreds of smokes from her lifetime.

“Whiskey,” he said.

“Hair of the dog?” he wanted something he could nurse, not just slam back. He shook his head.

“Mug,” he said.

“Can’t do ya for,” she pinched her lips at him. “Don’t need any drunks getting too many ideas with the hoofers in tonight. Shots or nothing, yer limit is three.”

Damn. “Vodka,” he said instead.

“What’s that?”

Damn again. He forgot what part of the country he was in. Forgot that some places were more behind, lacking the luxuries of the big cities. He needed to head back east to New York. That city had _everything._

“Beer,” he finally decided. Beer had never lead him wrong before.

“Clam,” she responded. He nodded and pulled the coin out of his coat pocket. She took it, sweaty hand brushing over his, and he held back a shudder. “You must be the big cheese, boy. Got every owl in this place eying you. You here to cause trouble?”

“No ma’am,” he responded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. “Just here to mind my own business and wind down, is all.”

She nodded with one last suspicious look in Pete’s direction and then vanished. She must not have known him. It was a weird sensation, not being recognized, but Pete didn’t really mind. As much as he loved attention, he also loved solitude, at least once in a while. He made sure to kick his aura up strong, an invisible wall radiating the vibe ‘stay away from me.’ They listened and left him alone. Not like they had much of a choice.

He was working through his third beer when it happened. It caught him off guard, even. With the wall up around him, he hadn’t been paying much attention to who else was occupying the joint. He didn’t much care, not unless it was the fuzz shutting the place down. 

He was staring down into his beer and wondering if there was an inconspicuous way to get a pint of whiskey to float its way through the pub in his direction. Probably not, but he just might try anyways. If people were convinced the place was haunted, some might go home and he’d get some peace and quiet. It was while riding this train of thought that he felt a slight tug, something pushing at his solitary wall, and then there was a young man sliding into the booth across from him.

Pete glared at him, slightly abashed. How had this man (nay, this _boy_ ), pushed his way through Pete’s wall like that. His magic didn’t fail. His magic never failed. What was this clown doing?

“Scram,” he said, glaring and offended. Giving the kid a once over, he immediately recognized the problem. He was glowing, his aura a subtle pink (pink? that was weird), and a slight grin playing across his face. He tipped his hat to Pete before removing it and setting it on the table.

“Your majesty,” the boy said, only further confirming his identity as fey, not only with the title but with the heavy accent accompanying it. Irish accents were as rare in the places Pete traveled as the fey who used them. Also, mortals never called him ‘your majesty.’ Hell, most elves didn’t even call him that unless he was in the kingdom, somewhere in the proximity of his mother or the Elders. He knew what they all thought of him. He was mixed, between a elf and a mage. He was a scoundrel. He was an idiot. On top of all of that, he was a criminal, but he didn’t need their respect when he got it from the rest of the world. With the humans he was at the top of the food chain. Damn anyone who sparkled. He didn’t need them.

“I told them time and time again that I ain’t taking a damned apprentice,” the red haired boy in front of him was playing with the brim of his cap and slouching down in his seat, totally at ease. Pete was tempted to set him ablaze and watch that hair really turn red. 

“I’m not your apprentice,” he said. “I’m moar like your shadow. Your partner.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Pete hissed, throwing up an extra wall around them for sound buffering after a bronx cheer rang up from the bar. The patrons were loud, but even so, he didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing their conversation. Too many fey had gone down in the witch trials for them to not be careful.

“Your mother sent me.” 

Pete slammed his fist down on the table. Of course she did. Of course she did. “And why the hell would she do that?”

“D’ere are assassins trailing you,” the kid said, pulling Pete’s beer over to himself and taking a swig. Pete scowled. “‘Ave been for a while. You’re popular, but not in te good way. I’m your guardian.”

“Dry up already,” Pete said. “I know about the torpedos on my trail. You think I haven’t had shivs pulled on me?”

“Dese aren’t humans. Dey’re others, and you aren’t being careful enough. You’ve been running about like a imp who’s never been outside te fey walls.” 

“And what, you’re supposed to protect me?” Pete guffawed and ran his hands through his hair. That insult stung. An imp? He wasn’t an imp. If anyone, the kid sitting across from him was. “A half-pint nature pixie? A child? You don’t look a day over fifteen, and your aura isn’t strong enough to be more than a fetch,” he expected at least a flinch or a scowl at that insult. It was a nasty one. But the boy just kept staring at him patiently with a raised eyebrow. Pete continued.

“And another thing! You say I ain’t being careful, when you’re the one dancing up into a speakeasy wearing glad rags and talking out of this time in a God damned Irish accent,” he sneered at the kid’s crisp, clean clothes (human, thankfully. at least he hadn’t shown up in fey garb) and clean skin. “This is the twenties, kid. You ain’t gonna fit in speaking fancy.”

“Are you finished?” the boy asked him. Pete scoffed, but he was out of words for the time being, so he just nodded.

“Niftay,” he said, catching Pete off guard slightly. “I’m te best o’ my class right now, and your mother wouldn’t ‘ave picked me if she hadn’t tought so. So yes, I’m a nature kin, but I’m not some kinda fetch. I’m a sprite. You’re lucky to ‘ave me ‘ere.”

“So you can grow fucking daisies in my hair and charm us some Janes with your pan flute?” Pete taunted. “What’s with your aura anyways? I thought pinkies were extinct? It’s not even dark. So are you weak, or are you just a girl?”

“You been ‘anging in dis world too long, your majesty. Fey don’t measure gender te way mortals do, and you know it. Dat’s not even an insult,”

“Doesn’t make you not pink.”

“I’m rare.”

Pete rolled his eyes caustically. The way every ‘I’ came out sounding like ‘Oi’ was driving him up the wall. “Swanky.”

“You can’t insult me.”

“I can try.”

“An’ you can’t get rid o’ me.”

“You want to bet on that, kid?”

“I’m under orders to be ‘ere, and believe it or not, I actually want to protect you,” he leaned his elbows forward on the table. “And my name is Patrick, and I’m of age as of yesterday, so stop calling me kid.”

“Sure thing, sprout,” Pete said, using a common word for nature children and hoping it comes out as an insult. “Or would you rather I called you fetch?”

“I’d rather you called me Patrick, but d’ere isn’t much I can do about dat,” he said with a casual shrug. Pete glowered at him. He’d get under this boy’s skin eventually. He’d cause Patrick such hell that he popped home in tears and begged the queen herself to never have to speak to Pete again. He’d win this one. He never lost.

Patrick’s demeanor changed within an instant, going from smirking and relaxed to straight backed and alert. “Somebody’s coming,” he whispered frantically. Pete furrowed his eyebrow. Somebody was coming. So what? 

“Swell,” Pete responded. “Nobody home in there? Are you an idiot? Don’t tell me that ma sent a sap for me to babysit-”

The door slammed open with a shout and chaos erupted. Police charged in and patrons fled in panic, looking for any way to escape the small establishment. Pete sighed. He didn’t mess with police. The law was for mortals and idiots. He didn’t have time for it.

With a snap of his fingers, he vanished in a cloud of smoke and left Patrick and the rest of those saps behind. He didn’t care what happened to the kid. If he never made it out of the juice joint, that just meant Pete didn’t have to waste energy getting rid of him. Swell. Pete was on the lam. He didn’t have time to putter around and watch after the damned little fetch. He wasn’t lucky. He was smart. He was fearless. He charmed himself out of there. Spirited away.

**Author's Note:**

> gifted to yourstalkerr, who gave me the idea to set this thing in the 1920's in the first place and said they'd be my advisor/cowriter on all things prohibition once we really get into it.
> 
> also thanks to squid (what the hell is your user name???), who laid down the fairy lore with me and gave advice on Irish accents


End file.
